#the pet had been exposed to a bat a month prior

[lostryu]

hey, unfriendly reminder to always vaccinate your pets for rabies bare fucking minimum. i don’t care about what you say otherwise. go to a shelter or a low cost vaccine clinic. if you can’t afford vaccines, don’t have a pet. i am begging you, please just fucking vaccinate your pets BARE MINIMUM for rabies. i don’t care if your dog or cat is indoor only. things happen, and when they do, your pet gets decapitated and you cannot get the body back. you don’t get the ashes back. trust me, just get a rabies shot for your pet.

[moldisgoodforyou]

march madness

this is dedicated to @sunnypogue​ and @oopmyheartwent-obx​ because they’re the homies and I said so 

wordcount: 2.2k

warnings: cursing, I didn’t edit this for shit, mentions of sexual situations

____

Every year, the Delt house held a March Madness bracket competition. There were cash prizes involved and it was taken extremely seriously, only significant others were also invited to participate (no hookups allowed, unless the hookup was consistent enough to stick around through the end of the tournament in April). James was in charge this year as brotherhood chair and was taking it to the next level, upping the buy-in and scheduling several watch parties throughout the month. 

When Rafe casually let it slip that he was participating, Sophie’s interest was piqued right away. They were all hanging out in his room, Sophie’s legs draped across his lap while Rafe kept a constant touch on her ankle, her calf, anything.

“Can I do it with you guys?”

“Well...” Rafe trailed off, trying to think of any excuse possible. He knew Sophie’s competitive nature to a tee and was already predicting the fight that’d come of it.

Unfortunately for him, James loved nothing more than seeing Rafe lose in the tournament every year. “Yeah, of course you can. Why not?”

Rafe winced and Sophie caught it immediately, furrowing her brow. “Yeah, Rafe, why not?”

“No reason.” He squeezed her ankle and gave her a little smile. She merely raised her eyebrows back, skeptical, and started googling on her phone, pulling up a few sites.

“What are you looking for?” Rafe asked, leaning over to see.

She quickly moved her phone out of his reach. “None of your business.”

“Sophie, c’mon.”

“Jeez, Sophie, is he always this whiny?” Colin teased and Sophie laughed, clicking her phone off. “You should know, you live with him.”

“Nah. He’s different around you. Softer.” James reached over and ruffled Rafe’s hair, causing a mini scuffle between them.

“Yeah, see, he’s always aggressive with us.” Colin pointed out.

“He could stand to be a tiny bit more aggressive with me.” Sophie mumbled under her breath with a smirk, just loud enough so only Rafe could barely make out what she said. He whipped around, eyes wide. “What did you say?”

She grinned and batted her eyelashes innocently. “Nothing. When can we fill out our brackets?”

“They’re due in three days.” James told her, handing her an extra blank bracket from his desk. Sophie accepted it with a thank you and stood, not before kissing Rafe on the cheek. “Looks like I have some work to do then.”

“It’s not that complicated, Soph, you can just pick it on, like, jersey colors or mascots or whatever.” Rafe told her carelessly. She kept up with Ohio State sports and knew the rules of the game, but didn’t really seem to care otherwise. She’d prioritize alone time in the architecture studio for big games sometimes, or study through a tailgate instead of watching the other games on air that day. What Rafe failed to remember is that she was also extraordinarily stubborn, and always determined to win.

“I’m not just going to throw my money away. I need to research.”

He laughed. “When have you ever researched before a game in your life?”

With that she flicked him in the head, scowling. “I’ve never needed to before. Have you filled yours out yet?”

Rafe went to bat her hand away a moment too late, letting out a little yelp. “Hey! No, I’m just going to fill out the day before. Let the experts help me out.” He gestured to the TV, where ESPN hosts droned on in the background. 

“Hm.” She gathered her things and Rafe leaned over, tugging at the sleeve of her jacket. “No, wait, stay. We can do it together, if you want?” 

“And let you cheat off me? Absolutely not.” She fixed him with a scrutinizing look. “Why, need someone to tell you whether the green or red team is better?”  

He laughed. “No, baby, I’m not just gonna wing it.” 

Even James could feel the annoyance radiating from Sophie in the moment and he face-palmed behind her back, anticipating her response. She frowned at Rafe, arms crossed. “So why would I just wing it?” 

“Well that’s - that’s not what I meant -” He hastily backtracked. 

“Smooth.” Colin muttered under his breath, shaking his head. She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure. Now if you’ll excuse me, darling, I have some work to do.” The pet name held absolutely no affection to it, hurled like an insult instead. 

“Darling? Huh? Sophie, I didn’t mean it like that -” Rafe started again and she leaned over, kissing him shortly to cut him off. “Sure you didn’t. When do we hand them in, James?” 

“6pm, Friday. Hard deadline.” He responded cheerfully. 

“I’ll have it to you tomorrow.” She grinned and gave them all a little wave before leaving, ignoring Rafe’s small noise of protest. It wasn’t til she had hardly stepped out of the house to walk home when she had three texts from James with individual links to stats from prior tournaments and comparisons of each team’s performances throughout the season. 

James: If Colin and I can’t knock his ass out, I’d want you to do it 

Sophie: :) I’ll accept the honor 

The next day, Rafe was entirely unbothered by Sophie’s participation in the bracket challenge, after she had reassured him that she was mainly teasing about his comments. She also knew the exact time the Bracketology show aired on ESPN, as well as the shows on other networks, and made it her mission to distract him at every opportunity possible. 

She was over again the next day while James and Colin were busy, so they had the room to themselves. Sophie had brought over her homework, like usual, and the two were just enjoying each other’s company for a while - until she noticed Rafe pull out his bracket, completely blank. “You’re not done yet?” 

“Huh? No, the ESPN show’s about to be on. Do you mind if I keep the volume low?” He reached for the remote. “That’s fine, I just have a few questions left on this.” She purposely made a show of stretching her arms high, the hem of her cropped sweater lifting just enough to show a flash of her lacy bralette. 

He stopped in his tracks, clearly eyeing her over. “Your sweater’s short.” 

She hid a smirk, giving him a confused look instead as she tugged the hem back down. “Is it?” 

“You said you have how many questions left?” Rafe tried curling his hand around her hip and pulling her close, but she swatted his hand away. “Just five, but they’re long answer.”  

“Just five.” He nodded to himself and turned the TV, remembering why he had gotten his bracket out in the first place. She kept her head down, working as she listened to the hosts’ banter for a few minutes. When they started actually getting into the bracket predictions, Sophie rolled her shoulders, then tilted her head to crack her neck. “Rafe?” 

“Mm?” He replied, half paying attention to her as he scribbled out some of the early game decisions. 

“Do you mind rubbing my shoulders? They’re killing me.”  

“Course not, c’mere.” He turned on the couch to face her, keeping the bracket and pen in his lap. 

She didn’t waste any time pulling the sweater over her head, letting it drop to the floor as she moved to sit closer to him. He laughed, loud. “What was that for?” 

Sophie glanced at him over her shoulder, moving her hair to expose her back fully. “Figured it’s easier to massage on bare skin than through a bulky knit sweater.” 

She had fully captured his attention now, and he ran a finger down her spine, grinning. “Just a shoulder rub?” She was glad to be facing away from him, unable to hide her eye roll. “Mind out of the gutter. Just a shoulder rub.” 

Rafe nodded but couldn’t resist placing a few kisses along her bare shoulder before massaging her shoulders, pressing hard. When she noticed his massage got weaker as he got more distracted by the TV, Sophie let out a breathy moan. It sounded horribly fake even to her ears, but got his attention right away. 

“Soph.” He warned. 

“Hm?” She questioned, wincing as she faced away from him, hoping she sounded innocent enough. 

Lucky for her, Rafe was pretty clueless to the motives of her game. “You can’t say just a shoulder rub then make sounds like that.” 

“Sorry, sorry.” She grinned. “I’ll be good for you.” 

“Sophie.” 

“Rafe.” She mimicked, turning back around and finally giving him an eyeful of her chest. He groaned and pulled her onto his lap immediately, hands going straight to her waist. “Sure you need to finish your homework?” 

She grinned. “How long are James and Colin gone for?” 

“Uh...” He glanced toward the door, at the TV, then at his watch. “We have an hour.” 

Sophie stood, blocking the TV, and held both her hands out. “Let’s take advantage of it then.”  

_ 

Her plan worked perfectly over the next three days, right up until the deadline for turning in the bracket. It laid forgotten on his desk while they made out on his bed, lazy kisses shared as their hands wandered. James barged in with only a single, split-second knock. “Hope you have your clothes on!” 

(They both did - they had almost been caught once and Sophie always triple checked the lock before taking her shirt off after that.) 

Rafe groaned and threw his pillow at James. “Give us a fucking warning, dude!” 

“Bracket’s due in five. You finished yet?” 

“Oh shit.” Rafe sat up immediately, glancing around for it. “No, I’ve been busy.” 

Sophie held back a smirk. “I think it’s on your desk.” 

“Did you ever finish yours, Soph?” Rafe asked as he got up to scramble for a pen. Unfortunately for him, she had taken all of them over the last few days - not a hard task, because he only owned four. 

“She turned hers in two days ago. It’s like, annotated and shit. You have four minutes now.” James tapped his watch, then decided to take pity on him and toss him a pen from his own desk. 

Rafe frowned, frantically filling out the bracket. “Annotated? With what?”  

She shrugged. “Stats to help me out.” Sophie leaned over, watching him fill out his choices. “Texas Tech is red and Purdue is gold, I think you should pick Purdue there. Gold is a fun color.” 

James snorted. “Two minutes, Cameron.” 

“Fuck, okay.” Rafe finished it quickly and handed it over, but Sophie grabbed it out of his hands first. 

“Wait, you picked Michigan to win? God, Rafe, do you have no loyalty?” She was violently offended, disbelieving of her eyes. 

“They’re a solid pick!” 

“They’re our fucking rivals!” 

He laughed and grinned, smug, as he remembered the nickname she had tried to use against him days earlier. “I’m playing to win here, darling. You didn’t seriously pick Ohio State to win, did you?” 

“I picked Villanova, thank you very little.” She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Oh.” He was surprised at her logical pick, which irked her even more. “Well, I don’t have the emotional attachment like you do here.” 

“You’d think two and a half years of school would be enough. Don’t need your parents as alumni to do that.” 

“She makes a point.” James chimed in, thoroughly entertained by the arguing, but made his way toward the door to collect other brackets. “Dude, you’ve had weeks to work on this, what happened?” 

“I don’t know, every time I’ve turned on ESPN to watch I...” He trailed off, thinking.

James shook his head and made his exit, making a point to securely shut the door behind him. 

Rafe finally put two and two together and pointed an accusing finger at Sophie. “You sabotaged me!” 

She grinned, giving herself up right away. “Yeah, what of it?” 

“That’s so low.” Rafe shook his head, scowling. 

Sophie laughed, sitting up on her knees and leaning forward to smirk at him. “Yeah? What are you gonna do about it?” 

He stood at the edge of the bed and placed both palms on her knees and slid them up her legs, leaning over her. “You don’t really think you’ll win, do you?”

“Might not, darling, but at least I’ll beat you. You screwed up on several brackets, by the way.” She met him with a kiss, nipping teasingly at his lower lip.

“Huh?” He mumbled against her lips. 

“Wichita State plays Marshall, not West Virginia, and Auburn plays Charleston. Not Clemson. So that’s already two games you’ve lost.” She grinned as he curled his fingers into her thighs and stood up on her knees to kiss him harder, locking her hands to rest behind his neck.  

“And you didn’t correct me once. I can’t believe you.” He slid one hand up to squeeze her ass, laughing when she let out a small squeak of surprise.  

“Cameron.” She tried pulling him down to the bed.

“What.” He didn’t budge, keeping a firm grip on her butt.

“Shut up and finish what you started.” 

“Yes ma’am.”

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 70: Something Old, Something New

Table of Contents. Third Instar, Chapter 1. First chapter of Third Instar; go to previous. Go to next. TWs: Canon-typical animal violence, hostile locals.

In the shape of things to come.

_______________________

It should have jolted ‘Choly electric, when Sticks turned over Little Boy Blue with the rhythmic sequence of soft chirps from its push-button transmission. Yet, the smooth uniform purring of the fusion engine left him doe-eyed sinking deeper into the ancient moving blanket that had been folded lengthwise and tucked down atop the otherwise exposed re-stuffed guts of the passenger seat’s upholstery. A lone Mister Handy fuel tank tucked itself behind him.

Sticks had replaced the front driver’s seat with a balding duct-taped armchair, trimmed to fit; he had also replaced the entire back seat with a footlocker, to make extra room inside the vehicle. The ghoul had paid the interior far more attention in flirting after perfectionism, with what he could loot from Concord nearby. His flux welding intimated once present chrome contours, the refinished salvaged wood, its prior vinyl wood paneling. The ghoul drew down the parking lever, now a screwdriver with a leather-wrapped handle, took the freshly royal blue 2071 Chryslus Coupe out of neutral, and eased it out from under the canopy of the Red Rocket Truck Stop to exit the parking lot.

Before ‘Choly could register to wave to the Sanctuary settlers out the open window behind them, Sticks had shifted into third and spirited them down to the first light to turn East into Concord. He sank down in his seat again, and folded his gloved hands in his lap.

‘Choly supposed that the two of them were just as patched together as Blue--though Angel would certainly have argued it took the cake for this distinction, were it in on his internal monologue. The composite Mister Handy had powered off its thruster on Blue’s roof, where Sticks had latched it down with a pair of tow chains, hooked around the rear pillars of the blown-out back windows. From atop the car, its Mister Gutsy grade sensors would provide them with a slightly greater forewarning of incumbent road hazards.

Sticks slapped the steel dashboard and laughed.

“Hah! aren’t the hydraulics just riding like a dream.” He beamed, petting at it. “Ohh, sometimes I surprise even myself.”

“It’s skating on glass,“ ‘Choly agreed, his attention squarely on the ghoul. He chewed at his lip. “Are you sure you don’t need another nap? We could pull in behind the Wright’s Inn, and you could recline--”

Rather than answer, Sticks zipped left and picked up a speed more befitting an automobile. With the windows down, the quarter windows open, and the floor vents unlatched, the crisp breeze disturbed ‘Choly’s headspace before it could sour. He tugged his golf visor down on his head, and coughed a bit at the smell of the road kicking up in the floorboards, but he welcomed the fresh air, as the air conditioning was the one notable thing Sticks had not managed to restore in some capacity.

He couldn’t get the ghoul to admit how he’d managed a (mostly) in-tact windshield, when there hadn’t been a scrap of glass left on the husk of the car after laying on its side for the better part of two hundred years.

‘Choly reached up to put a hand on the roof. Angel tapped it emphatically, reassuringly. His eyes couldn’t follow the scenery as they zipped along Route 62.

“Have you been further North than Lowell?”

“Oh, yeah. No further than Ant, though. Never been reason for me to. This’ll be a first.”

Route 62 changed over to Route 4 as it eased North. Sticks swerved around a bit of road debris, but did not otherwise slow down. ‘Choly fretted that little remained of the junkyard, after the fusion engines of automobile and robotics alike had exploded last he’d been this way. Sticks decided to push Blue’s constitution and gunned it up to sixty, then eighty.

As the scenery blurred past them and even with the correct prescription of eyewear on his face, ‘Choly shook his daze and instead squinted at the map on his Pip-Boy.

“Ant? As in... ants?”

“Don’t overthink it. We’re not stopping. Straight shot to Nashua.” The ghoul belted another laugh, letting the wind whisk his noseless face and last locks of blond hair. “I haven’t had a car run this smooth in eighty years. Maybe more.”

“You did great...” 'Choly admired his enthusiasm and pride of craftsmanship. “I doubt anybody else could’ve done what you’ve done.”

“You can say that again.” Sticks threw a hand across the back of ‘Choly’s headrest, and rubbed at his shoulder. ‘Choly leaned into it. “With how well he runs, we might be able to get back to Goodneighbor by the end of the week. --Fuck Tucker Bridge, though. Fuck it to Hell.”

“You really think we’re on the road for a while then?” He picked at the radio dials before deciding not to see if WXXX was the only surviving station in the area. “Shouldn’t we stop to loot in Tyngsborough or Chelmsford, then? There’s plenty of silt flour for a month or two, but I’ll need way more than a bottle of mouthwash and a half tube of toothpaste if we don’t want to have to choose between using it and my eating it.”

“For real. Don’t sweat it. If I were worried about groceries, I’d have had us stay over in Billerica to loot on the way down. Still can’t quite wrap my head around you getting by on that stuff, ya know.”

“Mm.”

Several minutes passed where they took in the sound of the open road. The unevenness of the rubbled roadway became more obvious to ‘Choly in the break in conversation, although Blue cleared a majority of it without hesitation.

“Say, where do you see us a year from now, anyway?”

“Is this your way of proposing to me?” ‘Choly turned to him with a starstruck start. “Next you’ll tell me you’ve got rings in that Cram tin.”

Sticks turned thoughts over in his head a bit.

“Well, there are rings in there. But they’re not for you. That box of rocks is our insurance.”

“I suppose I’ve spoiled the game, then.”

“You’re the one who had a proposal at all, you know. The proposal I was meaning. Gee, you really are head over heels for me, if you’re already talking about getting old.”

“I haven’t been thawed out for a whole year yet. It’s hard to imagine getting any older than I already am, let alone with you. ...You really think you’ll stick with me a whole year?”

“Many more, is the idea. Hopefully, you’ll stick with me.”

“...I meant to do that.”

“Sure,” the ghoul grinned, giving him a side-eye.

It took less than an hour for them to pass through the residential ruins of Chelmsford and Tyngsborough, though variably dense evergreens paved much of their way. The Merrimack ran against them to the right, coiling back and forth out of sight. Blue skipped a wet patch on Route 3A, spraying a muddy mist up into the floorboards and getting the two to sputtering and laughing.

Sticks slowed as they neared the invisible demarcation which once divided Massachusetts and New Hampshire. ‘Choly was about to crack a joke about speed limits, only to notice the three figures, in mostly combat armor, attending the military road blockade ahead. ‘Choly straightened in his seat as Sticks slowed to a stop.

The elder of two women stepped up to the driver’s side coddling the hulking chrome and steel form of an assault rifle. The other two guards aimed directly at the vehicle.

“You sure are a bad habit.” She chewed at a cigar.

“Sergeant Bea.” Sticks gave her an awful grin. “Just passing through. If that’s all right with you.”

She stooped to squint and scowl at ‘Choly. He swallowed hard and gave her a tepid smile.

“Sticks, you’ve got one minute to get that pile of metal shit off the Lane before I tell Gerald he’s got target practice.”

“Be out of your hair in half that,” he blandished. “Good to see you again, love.”

She told him off as they continued past. He casually waved his middle finger out the window, keeping his eyes ahead of him.

“You’re just on everyone’s good side, aren’t you?” ‘Choly wrung his hands, still stiff against the seat.

“Laners hate machines, is all. Can’t appreciate a fine automobile.”

As Sticks accelerated again, ‘Choly wondered whether Sticks’s reservations coming this way had more to do with the locals than the climate. He slouched, only to see a towering projection screen come up on their right. Agape, he nearly hung out the window, clutching at his visor. In the parking lot of what had once been a Starlight Drive-In, now stood a bustling flea market. A romance flickered anciently on the screen.

“Sticks, there’s people here. A hundred, maybe. People.” Under his breath, he murmured, “I wonder if they’ve got any horror movies.”

The ghoul scoffed.

“People with a stick up their asses, more like it.”

They passed the parking lot of a large shopping mall. Before ‘Choly could get into him, gunfire rang. A dozen mutated waterfowl the size of a human assailed around twenty settlers armed with shotguns, pole hooks, and bludgeons. Sticks sped up and ‘Choly grabbed him by the arm.

“The fuck are you doing!” the ghoul yelled. “Gerald’s their missile man!”

“We’ve got to go help them!”

“They don’t want our help!”

'Choly shook Sticks until he loathingly relented, then tried uselessly to unlatch the tow hooks in the back seat. Once he managed it, Angel lit its thruster and sped off saws blazing headlong toward the Radfowl. ‘Choly hadn’t expected to need to have a weapon at the ready. Sticks, meanwhile, hunched into the steering wheel with the determination to mow at least one goose-like thing down with the traffic barrier he’d bolted where Blue once had a front bumper.

The Mister Handy and the vehicle beset the composure of the locals far in excess of the fowl. As Blue connected with a pair of birds, the locals they’d squared off with immediately lashed out at the front of the car with their baseball bats. One punctured the trunk hood with their pole hook.

“HEY!” Sticks roared. He laid on the horn, and the three scattered to assist the others.

‘Choly shakily unholstered his Nagant. Before he could aim out his own window, a pair of Radfowl had rushed to snap and snarl in the driver’s side. One chomped down on Sticks’s upper arm where it could get at him, and he let out a groan. At close range, it felt more like administering tranquilizers with a jet injector rather than the modified syringer revolver he’d endeared as the Tryasovitsy. Their gnarly tusk-like teeth scraped at the door on the birds’ way down to the pavement.

‘Choly tried to get a better look, but Sticks shoved him back, to reach for the hunting rifle he’d tucked between the seat and door. He took aim and fired on one of the fowl.

“Just get your damn robot back over here before they beat the shit out of it.”

“Angel’s doing well with the birds--”

“--I meant the Laners.”

Another massive goose-like thing ran flailing toward the passenger side and ‘Choly reflexively drew on it, emptying the rest of his barrel of Pax Syringes with a choking panic. Once the last of the geese dropped, he sank back in his seat to steady ragged breathing.

Sticks got out of the car long enough to shoot the two Radfowl sedated on the driver’s side. An older man in fishing overalls with a shotgun came up and finished off the Radfowl on ‘Choly’s side before aiming the gun at him. A pair of teens had picked up the tow chains and approached Angel, swinging them slow and furious.

“We’re just trying to help!” ‘Choly squeaked out at the man. He dropped the silenced revolver in his lap in an instant. “We don’t mean you any harm!”

“You fucker. Ruined perfectly good meat,” the Laner snapped, repulsed and hateful. “Can’t eat drugged meat.”

“Please!” ‘Choly adjusted in his seat when he realized his sudden lurch could’ve seemed like hostility rather than begging. “Don’t hurt my Handy. We’re leaving! I swear it!”

“You’ve already wasted enough of our time. Tussling with you ain’t worth it.” The older man kicked at the concrete with a growl that punctuated in a hiss. “What did you think you were doing! Horning in on our hunt!?"

“Hunt?” ‘Choly frowned, guiltily incredulous. “You were attacking them?”

“You shouldn’t have risked yourselves like that. We had it under control. Get your goddamn tin can liabilities off the Lane!”

“Forgive us,” Sticks started. The man brandished a finger at him, warning that they keep their distance.

“And you can’t have any of our Radfowl meat!”

“All yours. Sorry to be trouble, folks. Angel! Come on, chap.”

Sticks waved to the Laners to gesticulate for the berth to reverse enough to turn around. They all glowered at the pair before getting to dressing their kills.

“The fuck is wrong with these people,” ‘Choly finally blurted out.

“Listen to me next time? I told you we didn’t need to help them.”

“Of course we did, Mister Hawthorne.” Angel swept around to the driver’s side where Sticks could hear its indignity. “It’s not our fault they’re ingrates!”

“Are you sure you’re all right? Those things have more teeth than a shark.”

“There had better be a Stimpak there. Or something.” He snorted to shrug off a pout. “Not like I’m bleeding out. Hurts, but I’ll live.”

“There’s definitely a full assortment of first aid stock at the warehouse. I’ll patch you up once we get inside. ...Sorry that I didn’t listen.”

“You keep doing the exact opposite of what I tell you, and it keeps biting you in the ass. This time, it bit me in the arm. Got a right mind to start telling you to do the opposite of what I think you’ll do.”

Now that they’d crossed the New Hampshire state line, ‘Choly produced the folder he’d tucked between the center console and seat, to skim Gretchen’s landmark location directory again. Going North on the Daniel Webster Highway, you’ll pass the Pheasant Lane Mall on your right. Crossing under a double overpass, there’s a Luxurique lot and cemetery on your left. The Nashua warehouse is at the next left.

“Let’s just... keep onward. Priorities. Right.” ‘Choly sighed. “We made good time getting up here. There’s still plenty of daylight left. The warehouse shouldn’t be more than ten minutes from here, provided we don’t encounter more locals.”

Go to next »»»

[sneksue]

Official Post About Lifestyle Changes

The date is January 28, 2021. 

I have not had chickens for a while. It will be 2 years in August. I have been meaning to write something here about all of it, but I either have not had time, or the willpower to go through with it. I was in grieving. 

In June of 2019, I took a trip from my shared homestead in Mississippi to Colorado to do some long distance hiking. I left all of my animals in the care of my ex husband’s mother and her then boyfriend. 

I trusted them to at least do the bare minimum in my animal’s basic care. 

That didn’t happen. They failed night after night to close and lock the coop’s door. They wouldn’t change their water during the day and they did not collect eggs. 

When I had service on my phone during the hike, I checked in with them to find out that because they had not closed or locked the coop door at night, several birds were “missing”, with more missing every day. 

Instead of simply closing the door and providing a safe space for my dear, darling animals to sleep at night, they decided to buy a game camera to see what was happening to them at night. 

Their reasoning had absolutely zero logic, and I was pretty pissed.

They found that raccoons were simply just waltzing into the coops and grabbing birds. The raccoons would drag them away into the woods and feast. 

By the time our trip was almost over, all of my ducks were gone. There were only a few chickens left, and the guinea fowl were all intact due to roosting 50ft up in oak trees. My cat was also “missing”.

I was heartbroken, devastated. I had spent so much money, time, energy, and love to build this flock. I wanted to provide my “family” and myself with sustainable, renewable food in case of a natural disaster. No one seemed to value my efforts, or even care to see what my end goal was. 

On top of grieving for the loss of my feathered babies, my then husband’s younger brother decided to GO OFF on me during our drive back to Mississippi. He claimed I was selfish, psychotic, uncaring, and manipulative. He screamed at me while we were all stuck in the car. He called me a bitch, he called me a liar, he called me a leech. I was stunned in silence. I had been struggling with my mental health for years, and had contemplated suicide more times than I could count. So, it is no surprise that while we were driving 70mph on the interstate, I seriously contemplated opening the car door and leaping out into traffic. 

I turned to my husband, my partner, the love of my life, my support system, to back me up. Defend me. Tell his brother that he was wrong. My husband did nothing of the sort. He remained silent as the verbal barrage from his brother continued. 

Everything clicked for me then. My mother in law was a complete nutcase, she blamed me for all of my husband’s shortcomings. She viewed me as a failure for not being the perfect housewife. She only saw me as a burden on her son’s happiness. My husband maintained an emotional distance from me for several years. He refused to be intimate towards me. He never showed an interest in me, my thoughts, my feelings. He never stood up for me or was proud to show me off. He never commended my strengths and triumphs, he only pointed out what he viewed were my failures. My brother in law was more of a nutcase than his mother, physically abusing his dog and neglecting his cat, leeching off of his mother and getting handouts at every possible opportunity, spending his days smoking hundreds of dollars of marijuana, drinking booze, playing videogames. 

I had no social life, I wasn’t allowed to have a social life. 

I had no friends I could hang out with, all of my friends were online. 

No matter how much I did for these people and how much I excelled at everything I did, nothing was ever enough. I was never enough. 

No wonder I struggled with mental health, eh?

I came to this realization instantaneously, and demanded to be dropped off at my dad’s house in Westminster, CO. 

I had none of my personal belongings besides my hiking and camping stuff. I didn’t care, I just had to get away from these toxic monsters. 

My husband and I loosely decided that this would be a “break” for our relationship, and that he would go back to MS to work and save up to move here with me. I agreed and I began working and saving up myself. 

We both knew he was never going to come here. We were never going to be together again. 

We remained in close contact for a few months after the separation. But the contact and our conversations became fewer and less substantial. 

One night, as I was walking home from work, I called and told him that I thought we should break up. He admitted to me that he had removed his wedding ring over three weeks prior. I was understandably hurt by that, but I did understand. 

He also informed me that all of the birds were gone or dead except for a couple roosters. 

I was more devastated by the loss of my birds than the loss of my marriage. If that doesn’t tell you enough, I don’t know what does!! 

My cat never returned. 

I asked him if we could keep in contact, and he told me he did not want to talk to me or hear from me for several years. I was once again hurt by this, but with his own mental health issues, I again, understood. He did say he can see us being friends in the future, but now that its been some time, I don’t want to be friends with him. I want the best for him, but I can’t bring myself to expose my mentality to his toxicity and negativity. 

I asked again and again, over a period of months, for him to return my belongings. He kept putting it off. I told him I was going to drive down there myself and gather everything i could and dispose of the rest. 

He agreed, initially, then banned me from coming only after I requested the time off from work and had friends to accompany me on the journey, He promised he’d send all my stuff in several shipments after he sold my car. I told him he could keep the profit from the sale of my car and use it to send me my stuff. 

He ended up sending me ONE box of my stuff. And most of it wasn’t even mine. I was appalled and disgusted that he’d be so careless and inconsiderate. 

I sent him messages and requested SPECIFIC items after I received the first box. I got no reply, and no more packages to this day have been sent. 

He and his family stole my property, killed my pets, and broke my heart. 

Thieves, liars, and extremists, the lot of them. 

I grieve daily for the loss of my animals and the torture I was put through for nearly 6 years. 

All of that out of the way, let me move on to tell you what this blog will now feature. 

I have obviously had a change in lifestyle. I no longer live on homesteading land, I live in a roomy two bedroom apartment with my AMAZING fiance. 

My love of chickens, I discovered, was a love for reptiles in general. Cuz birds are reptiles and all that jazz. 

When I met my fiance, I was already blown away by his attitude, confidence, and view on life right off the bat! He inspired me, made me want to be better to myself. 

Meeting him felt weird, at first. It felt weird because I was waiting for this amazing person to... have a catch. There’s gotta be a red flag somewhere. And if there isn’t... he is probably a psychopath who will eventually turn on me and kill me. No one is that... good. 

So I thought to myself, “Welp, gotta find out. I’ll go to his house!”

He had a couple little snakes in his room which I demanded to play with. He happily got them out and I was like “THAT’S the catch? Nah, this just convinces me this guy is... my kind of guy.” 

I’ve had a love of snakes since early childhood. Not an interest of passion, but I truly loved interacting with and watching them. I’ve never had an innate fear of any insect, (exclude honeybee, because I didn’t know better at 6 years old), or animal. I love them all and everything they do to contribute. All they experience. 

I used to catch wild garter snakes and rat snakes in nets, pet them, show them to my mother occasionally to freak her out, and release them. Then watch them. 

There were a mating pair of Oteekee Corn Snakes in my HS yard. Every summer we’d see them, out and about hunting, hiding, climbing... growing. They were bright red and jet black with specks of yellow. I could tell these guys were pretty smart and maybe there was more to snakes than I really thought about ever. 

So, being sold on this amazing guy, we up and moved in together. Nice. My paycheck kept going up and up. I was saving a ton. I wanted a car and an apartment as soon as possible. 

I got bonus after bonus for working hard at my job and everyone hitting labor targets. 

We got a place. Nice. 

Both got steady jobs. Nice. 

There’s uh, a lot of room in this new place. Nice. 

Hey it’s my birthday and I can get myself a snake. I have more than enough for supplies and the animal itself. 

I browsed on morphmarket for what felt like ages.... 

I had no idea that there were.... so many complicated genetics with ball pythons. I was highly interested, because if you know me, you know I’m interested in genetics and selective breeding. 

I found there were THOUSANDS of genetic combinations, each with unique names. It was like alien code. The animals were beautiful but I had no idea what I was really looking at. 

One night while going to our local reptile store to get feeder rats, I was looking around at all the glass window babies, as I usually do. 

I made my way around the scorpions, tarantulas, cave scorpions, frogs, lizards, the store’s companion burmese python, and my eyes landed on a little... adorable puppy-eyed baby ball python. The signage stated that it was a Puma. Seemed simple enough. Easy name to remember. I looked into the glass at the lil noodle, and talked all baby talk and shit. The sweet little thing came right up to scope at me, then yawned. 

I called an employee over and said I’d like to handle this animal right here. The employee obliged and I fell in love. Sexed as male. Easy buy. 

I cried on the way home, It was amazing. I have one picture on here of him a few days after I got him. His name is Mallow, and he is bigger now, but still just as sweet. 

So yeah. It went from there. Now, including the boa and ball python that are my fiance’s, and Mallow, we have added 3 more to our family. We are done now, as these animals may live a loooooong time. And they require space and attention just like any other pet. They’re not expensive, and they’re low maintenance care is nearly brainless if you set it up right. They’re statistically and actually safer than dogs or cats, and are absolutely therapeutic and entertaining. 

This blog will from this day forward be dedicated to snake content, reptile content, and a lot more fun, actually good pictures. I will also share genetic related stuff I find relevant. 

Not having a shitty phone camera is pretty great, tbh. 

TLDR: No more homestead. Ex is evil (yeah yeah), New place new animal new me. SNAKES! SNAKES!!!! SNAAAAAAAAAKKKKKKKKEEEEESSSSS!

I know this post is just for me but whatever, if I make myself laugh. Cool. G’night. 

[worstfruit]

Okay so i reworked this using bastardized doric, which i intend to lessen over time but i think its still a bit much

The tower wasn’t anything like what Gwen had anticipated. It was far too kempt for starters, and though it was deep within the woods outside of town, it was still just sitting out in a clearing. A bit too obvious for her liking.

And yet, on the opposite end of the spectrum it was far too subtle. There were no twisting vines or dead trees. No heads on pikes, no ribcages or femurs strung up on display. In her experience, that meant a trap. Dazzle camouflage—hiding in plain sight with how garishly cute the garden was. She’d never met a wizard who grew chamomile. But even after waiting and watching and sneaking around every angle, Gwen hadn’t triggered any sort of trip wire nor spotted even an open archere in the stone. There was a locked cellar just around the back, next to the small plot of tilled soil. The lock looked rusted to hell, likely from disuse. The garden, though brimming with wildflowers, was a bit out of order as well, and Gwen had to wonder if anyone even lived inside the tower. Still, it did meet the description the locals gave her (an unassuming but old stone pillar erected in the forests southeast of Backwater), and was exactly where the bandits said it would be (a clearing found left of a fresh deer carcass a short distance off the path’s second fork, the side with the big boulder).

She’d been a paladin long enough to learn that if it walked like a duck, and sounded like a duck, then it was probably a duck. Besides, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and at the moment, Gwen was in quite the pickle. Not three weeks prior had she been ousted from her Temple and indefinitely suspended of knighthood by her order. Taking down a necromancer, one that had alluded authorities for over 6 months, would be just the kind of deed she needed to get back in good graces.

Gwen readied her sword and stepped towards the stone structure, still anticipating some sort of magical barrage. An explosion, maybe even just a ‘hey you!’ But as she made her way up to the dry rotted entrance door, there was nothing.

Based off reports, she was half expecting hell itself. A fortnight prior to her expulsion, the temple formally briefed a number of paladins on the mission, recounted ongoing complaints of dug up graves, missing corpses, and robberies from the town of Backwater. It was a small and poor little stop along the way to Capitol; one of the few human villages between the Mission and High Elf territory, mostly used as a last minute night’s stay or provision pick up.

Tangent reports of missing cattle, children, and even the infirm were lumped together due to how small the townships outside of Backwater were. The bandits, who had tried to ambush her during her initial trek through the woods, informed Gwen of an elderly spell caster who conjured demons and brimstone from his own hands. The Backwater locals’ descriptions varied from vampiric in nature, down to common thugs, but all stories had a few principle things in common: he was old, he was in the woods, he worked with fire, he lived in a tower, and was evil. Taking in the scenery before her, Gwen sized it up. She certainly was at a tower in the woods.

For a moment, her manners almost got the better of her and she raised a gloved hand to knock. Thinking better, she gently pushed against the arched door to find it unlocked. It was ill fitted for the doorway, shrunken with age and it glided without touching the threshold.

Generally, necromancers were known to have a penchant for decay, dilapidation, just a general unkemptness that this tower absolutely did not have. The interior was lackluster to say the least; a bit old but otherwise rather mild in all regards. The floors were rugged with some dust in the corners, the stairs narrow but clearly well used, and there was even a small boiler with a little shitty kettle atop. Keeping her hands on the hilt of her blade, Gwen continued onwards, taking gentle steps so that her sabatons did not clack too loudly against the cobbled floors. She used to rugs to muffle her steps, stretching her short gait to match their haphazard patterns. She noticed a number of odds and ends befitting of her grandmother more so than a necromancer; things like doilies and little dried out gourds with sad little faces painted on them, a cracked tea cup here and there, some with tea leaves wet at the bottom. Still—Gwen had been spurned too many times to assume, perhaps the wizard was an elderly woman, or perhaps it was all a ruse. Cute or not, she had a job to do and a reputation to save.

 Doing her best to ignore all the warning signs (or, lack thereof), Gwen pressed onwards, towards the spiraling stairwell. There were a few tomes laying about. She stooped to flip through one, noting that while the contents weren’t strictly of a necromantic nature, they were still damning nonetheless. Poison herbs and writing on anatomy, charts of stars and moon phases, a grimoire here and there and even one on exotic animals.

The stairs were lined with melted wax, an odd wick here and there sticking out like stray hairs on a bald man’s head. The tower, save the open door and natural sunlight pouring in from the top, was poorly lit and only so large; though there was no apparent latch door-- there may have been a basement along with the cellar; there was really nowhere else to go quietly but up. Even the archeres were boarded up with odd bits of rays poking through and spilling onto the bumpy walls and cracked wood; it made her ascent a bit difficult but Gwen was nothing in not cautious. She waited long enough for her eyes to adjust to the shadows before pressing onwards.

The next level was even more cramped than the first, and more of a resting area than an actual floor. Gwen froze just as her line of sight passed over a step and into the room—just around the curved corner of the tower’s central support pillar (a massive, cylindrical oak beam), there was a chair. Tartan fabric, frayed, with feather filling coming out about the seams and around the corners, but atop the chair sat…something. It was small, maybe the size of a medium hound, greenish skin and a shock of red hair and cloth curled around itself. She couldn’t quite understand the anatomy if it from the glimpse she got before concealing herself behind the beam, just that it was alive and likely asleep.

Gwen peaked back around just to confirm her suspicions. The beast was tiny and most definitely asleep. Oddly enough, it was also clothed in what appeared to be a little cloak, fit for a child. She could identify its head, its long and pointed nose, two bat like ears and two giant, but closed eyes. It breathed in a gentle rhythm, clawed paws and feet tucked by its side much the way the temple’s pet cat curled up on Gwen’s bed some nights. It resembled a sand imp, ghastly little creatures all wrinkles and teeth. She didn’t want to wake it up to find out if it had the very same fangs.

Next to the chair was a small rickety stool with a book atop, and on top of the book was a half-eaten apple, already yellowing. She looked as far as she could upwards. There was enough of a ceiling for her to guess the third floor was a bit more substantial. As quietly as she could, Gwen moved her foot upwards. She hesitated placing it down unto the next step; if the creature was anything like a sand imp, she did not wish to wake it. Even before she finished her step, she saw its ears twitch. Perhaps this was the warlock’s familiar, and perhaps she was lucky to have caught it sleeping on guard duty.

Rather than continuing upwards, Gwen considered her options. The thing was small. It would be a but a stain on her long sword. But, if it really was some sort of fucked up, green sand imp (perhaps it was rabid or jaundiced), then it was probably fast. Their claws were nasty and they were just intelligent enough to know exactly were to slide them between the seams of plate armor. It’s almost as if they were completely willing to die, just so long as they could make you bleed, even just a little. They had zero regard for their own safety, no sense of reasoning, and no hesitation. It would be like a setting off an alarm bell for sure; loud creatures they were. She hated them more than feral, rabid rats, and while she would surely be able to take one (yet alone a puny, runty, sleeping one), she would rather not.

Which brought her to the next option. The creature all but confirmed the identity of the tower’s primary inhabitant. What sort of old woman would live with a pet sand imp? And, by law, familiars and death magick were strictly prohibited and punishable by, well, death. Love or hate the elves, they had a moral code she could agree with.

Gwen didn’t like to play executioner often, but for her own sake, she was strongly considering the alternative to continuing forward to confront the villain-- which was to go back to town, rile up the locals, gather a shit ton of wood and hay and oil and slow burning lards, and light the sucker up.

 Nodding resolutely to herself, Gwen slowly, ever so carefully turned to head back down the stairs. She was feeling pretty pleased with her decision making, a bit clever too (she had found the tower after all, and could report the deed back to her temple even if she wasn’t the one to personally kill the necromancer. The townspeople would think her a hero and she would be allowed back into the Order, surely), until the very same little, shitty kettle she had spotted earlier flew right past her head. Gwen didn’t even have a chance to duck. It clattered against the stone wall loudly, spewing scalding hot water and steam all about. Thankfully, her armor caught the brunt of it, though a few flecks nipped at the nape of her exposed neck and she felt a painful flush of wet air blossom against her cheek and eye. Without hesitating she lunged forward and tackled the offender. She didn’t have of a chance to get much of a glimpse besides a hunched cloak and some white hair.

 Her shoulder made contact and the two hit the floor, Gwen’s plate and mail pealing against the stone like a muffled bell. She flipped herself over to throw him to the side so she could land face up. Whoever had attacked her fell by her side with a dull thud. She used the pause to grab at her sword and roll over so that it was against them in a warning. Gwen miscalculated this move, however, and instead of holding the sword to their throat, her adrenaline and weight forced her forward much more quickly than she had intended. The blade plunged into the figure’s middle like a paring knife into a mushy peach. She heard a weak ‘oof’, before she felt the give of steel against flesh. It took a moment for it to register that both of them had stopped moving.

She clambered away and regained her footing using the boiler to stand fully. The ‘necromancer’ was on the floor, staring at the ceiling with glassy, bloodshot eyes. It was an impossibly old man, clean shaven and white like porridge. He wore a fuzzy purple cloak and a blue, linen nightgown beneath. His middle was a burgeoning blossom of bright red, two sinewy legs poking out from beneath his sheer gown and thick robe, twitching in a way that reminded Gwen, once again, of the little black cat that slept at the foot of her bed back at the temple.

 Remembering the sand imp, Gwen gasped and turned towards the stairs waiting for another attack. Instead, she saw the green thing poking its head around the corner, clutching the empty tea kettle to its chest and staring at Gwen with big, yellow eyes. Just like the temple cat, Pitch.

Neither she nor the creature moved. Instead it moved it’s eyes from Gwen to the dead old man and back a few times, before finally opening its mouth (to which Gwen could see that it indeed had sand imp teeth) and saying “Is ye the witch?”

The last thing Gwen expected to hear was a voice. Words, intelligible common! It even cocked its head, clearly surprised, clearly afraid, clearly upset but otherwise completely unmoving.

She didn’t answer. She was stooped, breathing heavy, and unsure how to even answer the question. So instead she stood up straight and opened her mouth, then closed it, then looked to the freshly dead man on the floor for an answer. Receiving none, she looked back to the imp and cocked her own head back it. “What?” was all she could muster, though the incredulity in her voice certainly carried other questions. The imp, a he based off the voice, which was scratchy and a bit high (yet so clearly NOT a child, she would have to hear it again to confirm how oddly inhuman yet…human it sounded) adjusted its stance in a way that suggested he was reminding himself of where he was.

 “Ah. Er, Ah mean ye. He.” The imp pointed to the man with a shaky claw and let out a short, desperate kind of laugh, and then spoke so quickly that Gwen almost didn’t catch it, “Vern aye says the witch he mairriet fair go cum ben back fur his heid een day, sae, is ye her? The witch?” He retracted his hand and used it to clutch the kettle even tighter to his chest. “Ye're gonnae kill me neist? Gonnae get me head too!?”

 Gwen didn’t get the chance to answer or even ask for clarification; the imp seemed to realize his own words and swallowed them faster than he had said them, and without any warning, he chucked the kettle, as hard as his little twiggy arms could, directly at Gwen.

This time she didn’t have the chance to duck.

Gwen saw stars. The kettle was cast iron, and the imp was stronger than she gave it credit for. It connected with her forehead and sent her sprawling back against the tower’s wall with another clang. Gwen threw her hands to her face, cursing loudly and sliding senselessly against the wall and floor as she tried and failed to gain purchase. The wet rugs bunched at her sabatons and the tea kettle kept getting caught underfoot and rolling her backwards. She heard, rather than saw, all four of his clawed feet scuttling up the stairs like a frightened dog beneath the sounds of her own struggle. With a scream, Gwen kicked the rugs free of her feet and the kettle clean across the room, shoving herself upright. The paladin screwed her eyes shut and threw her sword down.

“Come back down here!” she screamed, stepping over ‘Vern’s’ body so she could reach the stairs. She wasn’t expecting an answer. “I won’t hurt you!” Gwen added in a much quieter voice. That was partially true, she wanted to ask the thing questions, and generally liked to refrain from violence if it could be helped. Unfortunately for Gwendoline, it could rarely be helped, and her entire face was smarting. She waited a beat for a response and then began trudging up the stairs, ignoring the dull throb emanating from the impact zone throughout her entire head.

The chair she had seen earlier was empty, and she continued upwards to the third level, all the while speaking in as calm but loud a voice she could manage through grit teeth; “I need to know more about Vern, he may have been a very bad man! Let me ask you some questions, please, and I won’t take anyone’s head!”

The third floor was a bit less boring than the first two. The walls were covered by a bookcase, the wooden panels following the curve of the stone walls behind them. Each shelf was full of knick knacks and dust. Jagged chunks of crystal and spindly plant stems with fuzzy leaves, bird and fish and rat bones, metal instruments and trinkets and tubes set up in between all of the books. The shelves broke in the center of the room, an arched little cove cut into them where an oil lamp hung unlit. Beneath was a small table with various, incriminating things on it, like mortars and pestles and scales, all kinds of little glass vials and broken bottles, quills in dried inkwells. Enough to convince any layman of Vern’s profession, surely.

There was a latch door on the ceiling, but the rope ladder attached to it hadn’t been completely unfurled; instead it hung limply so that the rope was in a loose coil, stuck against the nail lock. The thing was still in the room.

Next to the stair entrance on Gwen’s right was a sad little bedroll, not even a cot, with bits of hay sticking out bellow the fur blanket on top of it. The blanket had a lump beneath it, and the lump seemed to have a long, pointed nose attached.

Even assuming it was out of tea kettles, Gwen didn’t want to alarm it. Instead of addressing the lump, she simply spoke with a steady, but softer voice, to the room at large.

“I am sorry if he was your friend, imp. I. I did not intend to…end his life. Honestly. He caught me by surprise. I am a paladin from the Order of Fragan’s Templar, to the north of Backwater. I was tasked to…investigate reports of a necromancer terrorizing the woods surrounding Backwater and the road to Capitol. I truly mean you no harm, so long as you intend none in return.”

The lump stirred, poking a claw out so that the fur could be pulled back to reveal a narrowed, yellow eye. This time, his voice was more level, accusatory even, than afraid.

“Seems like a gayand quick in-inspectigation.”

“Investigation. I was attacked.” Gwen bit back.

“Ah didnae hear ye cum ben in. Didnae hear anyain let ye in.”

“You were asleep. The door was open; I didn’t hear anyone behind me!” Gwen pinched the bridge of her nose, “I entered just to talk, but since it was dark I was on alert. I was told this man was very dangerous. I saw you and. Well, I became frightened!” She paced forward and stood before the bedroll, using a foot to kick the fur clean away from the imp. He remained bent over, looking up at her. “So, you are Vern’s…familiar? He was a practitioner of some sort, I see.” Gwen gestured to the room around her.

The imp sat up onto its knees, still staring up all small and pathetic.

“A wis his slae.” He said, simply. He seemed to chew the rest of her words over but remained silent otherwise.

“Slae-slave? Was he practicing the dark path?” She asked after a moment. The imp shot her a questioning look. “Necromancy! A wicked pact with some malignant force?” Gwen pressed.

“Uh, he. Ye mean, the witch? Fit path? The wids?”

“Did he raise the dead? Was your master some sort of evil wizard, or otherwise unlawful caster? Did he rob graves, steal towns children and sacrifice animals, consort with the spirits and the like? And please, annunciate this time.”

The imp seemed to understand this and nodded slowly, placing a claw to his lower lip.

“Nay, Ah dinnae think sae.” He adjusted himself to stand and crossed his arms over his chest as if he were self-conscious in regards to what he was about to say, “He mostly wrote mince doon in, uh, in books fur fowk fa  couldnae reid. They’d pey him tae scrieve a lot, or make tae make queer balms an sic, stuff thon smellit odd or brunt bricht in jars, an sometimes he e’en conjured portals!” He relaxed a bit as he explained, seemingly distracted with his own tale, moving his hands about, “Or skin a coney--”

“A coney?” She had to pause this time around, though she initially noticed he talked a bit oddly, she hadn’t heard him say enough to catch the accent. Even still, it wasn’t familiar. Mostly understandable, when he talked slow. Perhaps similar to the Northerly elves at most, but very off.

“Jumpy fur craiter, wit the lang lugs an sic.” Fizzle mimicked whatever a coney was by grabbing at his large ears and making an unidentifiable face.

Gwen just shrugged, signaling the imp to continue.

“Deer too, but then he fair hae me skin it an take aw the coin an fur an then!? Guess on whit he dae. He’d gae an send it off tae the witch! He aye talkit aboot her! The witch! The witch I thoucht ye wis. But yer’re no? Yer’re no gyan…tae kill me, richt?” He finished, seeming to remember he wasn’t alone and looked up at Gwen like he’d just spilt milk.

Gwen found herself leaning in, even squinting as she tried to decipher just what the little creature was saying. She caught the gist of it all, up until this point, but he spoke so fast, and all of his words had a way of melting into each other, stumbling and lilting at the oddest moments. She almost wasn’t sure if it was common tongue.

She put her hand to her mouth and rubbed her upper lip. So. The man hadn’t been a necromancer. She eyed the imp a bit as it spoke. It could be lying, or perhaps not know the difference between a portal mage and a necromancer. She let his question linger in the air for a moment before regarding the creature with a sigh. Gwen at least understood that he did not want to die.

“No imp. I will spare your life.” She said, with a bit more monotony than she had intended. Had she not been so distracted with the current predicament, she might’ve found the way he perked up endearing, in a pitiful way. Like a pig spared the slaughter. But, instead, Gwen sunk to floor next to the imp (even when seated, it barely met her eye line) and pressed both hands over her mouth once more, staring straight ahead. “Vern. Vern was his name, you said?” The imp nodded. “Vern…did he have family? Friends, the like?” she asked from beneath her gauntlets.

“No…I dunno aboot the witch, bit, aside frae me an a puckle fowk, nae a body comes bi affen.”

“Fowk? Do you mean folk? The people. Like, towns people, from Backwater? Do they come often asking for things like portals and potions?”

The imp thought for a moment, his red irises rolling up to the side to regard a stray cobweb floating down in a beam of sunlight.

“Na, no anymore. Ah actually cannae remember fin we haed ane. Mebbe aroon lest hairst.”

“Huh?”

“Hairst! Neeps n pumpkins, ye ken?”

“Pumpkins.” She was losing patience. Luckily, Gwen dealt with her fair share of Northerners while posted at the wall, though the conversations were often limited to work related issues. “H-harvest? You mean the autumn, when the leaves fall?” Fizzle nodded excitedly. And in turn, Gwen nodded solemnly, then stood to pace in front of the imp. His head trailed after her movements. “Okay. Yes. We are getting somewhere, despite the clear barrier of tongues. And you, what is your name?”

“Fizzle.”

“Fizzle. Good. Yes. Were you, fond? Of Vern?”

Fizzle simply shook his head, a definite ‘NO’.

“He enslaved you, you said? Made you do things against your will and skin rabbits for no pay?”

“He foond me innae tree stump ane day an pit me innae sack! Ah was hidin an he still foond me. Ah dunno how! Ilky time Ah triit tae scowp awa faet, he wad aye track me doon an 'en dunk me intae the river till Ah cooldn’t stain it na mair!” Fizzle crossed his arms and huffed, looking away for a moment to consider his words before looking back up to the woman. “Aye, he did bad magick. But nae daith magicks.”

Gwen leaned forward excitedly, latching onto one of Fizzle’s words. “Okay, okay, so…would you perhaps say that he was a bad man? A mean man?” she asked, eyeing one of the many decorative squashes peppering the tower. It stared back at her.

“He wis mean an he lovit tae zap fin ah let kettle fussle afore fly cup. Een time he gart me boo like a bench, ower on ma hands an knees an he dane putten his feet on ma back, aw kis ah accidentally brunt his favourite stool!”

Gwen nodded eagerly as she walked around the room, and continued shaking her head to herself well after Fizzle had finished speaking. There was ample evidence supporting Vern’s ‘treachery’. From his choice in literature to the indentured servitude of a sick sand imp! Gwen was smiling to herself as she considered this: he probably enchanted the poor beast to make it sentient (and green)! She was sure the Order would not be pleased about that in the least. Truly a vile, vile man!

“Okay! Great.” She clapped her gloved hands together with a metallic smack, startling Fizzle; “Well, there we have it, my little friend! I came to investigate Vern. I followed the tips of the towns people, and two unscrupulous bandits who tried to accost me on the road here! They told me of his ways, how he had devils shooting fire from their hands. I entered his tower in search of him, just to talk! To confront him, and yet the coward attacked me without warning.” She paused her theatrics to turn and look at Fizzle, eliciting a nod from him which made her assume he was following along and compliant. “So I defended myself! And rightfully so, as I come to find, he’s put some sort of evil enchantment on you, to make you walk upright and wear clothes and speak as if you’re a regular halfling! What other forest critters he must have tortured!” Fizzle raised a brow ridge at this, but Gwen continued on, “The townsfolk will be happy to be rid of that man, of this I am certain.”

“Fit div ye mean, enhancement? On me?” he looked himself over, but saw nothing awry.

Gwen bit her lip. Was it cruel to tell a donkey it’s true nature? Certainly not if it, as donkeys ordinarily cannot understand you. But a talking donkey? Who ever heard of such a thing. Informing poor Fizzle as to what he was seemed akin to kicking a puppy begging for scraps. Needless cruelty (and Gwen had her fill of that for the day). But the imp just looked up to her, and despite her best efforts, she found herself relenting. She figured he deserved to know, and besides, she liked animals quite a lot.

“Well, you are but an imp, are you not? Never in my days have I encountered a walking, talking imp. Let alone a green one! And so far north.”

Fizzle was shaking his head before Gwen was even finished, “Am fae wye wye up north, past the waa.” Fizzle considered this for a second as he noted Gwen’s confusion, “The big, lang rock. Miekle rocks n sic! Man made.”

“The wall?”

“Aye! The waa. Vern wis buying dwarven wares n fit not, fin he fand me up near the mountains. Aire’s a lot o’ ma kin up aire. The caves an moors are ours. Belong tae us.”

“The north? The Great North, with dwarves?! I’ve never heard of sand imps living anywhere but south! In the salt flats and around the shores with those wild folk.” Now Gwen was shaking her head. “That would explain the accent, however.”

“Nae wi Dwarves, no, jis near tham. We hate dwarves an they hate us, an ah div nae ken fit the fuck an imp is, bit am a goblin, lady. A’ve nivver been faarer sooth nor here.”

“Repeat that last bit, where you just cursed at me.” Gwen asked, impassively. She was staring past the little thing, gears turning in her head trying to work out what he was saying.

“Err, Dwarves, richt? Sae, they hate me, an I hate ‘em. Dunno if they name us ‘imp’, bit Aim tellin ye, Aim a goblin.”

Gwen shook her head dismissively—semantics didn’t matter, and she was certain that whatever a ‘goblin’ called itself didn’t change the fact that it was an imp. She knew there were multiple tribes of elves who looked different enough from one another, and humans and halflings and dwarves had the tendency to range from an alabaster white to deep, rich browns and near blacks depending where they lived. Maybe sand imps weren’t just confined to the sands! Maybe they could be green?

“No matter, Fizzle, let’s just keep this between you and I. Those I answer too are not particularly fond of Northerners, and will have a much easier time understanding sand imps.” She filed away his strange account for later consideration; more important was the matter of staging the scene. Fizzle shrugged and continued to look up to her expectantly. It dawned on her that she wasn’t quite sure what to do with him. If the town’s excuse for law enforcement came to access the scene, they would surely want to get rid of the little guy. Gwen sort of pitied him. He had been helpful despite the kettle incident, and she didn’t exactly want to send him from his recent slavery straight to death. “But we will worry about that when the time comes. For now, I need your help.”

 Gwen was not proud of this talent, no, but she recognized it as a valuable one nonetheless.

Over years of training under Thalodin Lldewig, she had learned many ways to…suggest things. Through dress, body language, gesture, facial expression, choosing words, and perhaps most importantly, through setting up bodies of evidence (as well as literal, dead bodies) to insinuate. Certain things. Many things. In fact, according to Thalodin, you could say just about anything, without actually ever saying a word. Things that may benefit him, and keep any officials outside (or sometimes, even inside) the Order from asking too many unnecessary questions.

Gwen didn’t like to think of this as lying. She detested lying. Every time she muttered even a white lie, she could feel the eyes of her patron saint burning a hole through her, even from a young age before she ever committed herself to the Order. But again, her mentor had the unfortunate habit of stretching the truth to such a degree that he was ‘forced’ to stage the occasional ‘crime scene’ in a way that may have ‘flattered’ him more than it should have.

It was something that took Gwen quite a while to come to terms with, but eventually, it rubbed off on her. She didn’t like to steal, to cheat or lie or kill, yet situations like Vern’s had been requiring her to do just that as of late.

She thought about her recent expulsion. The shame made her stomach sink and cheeks burn bright. But then the anger set in. Gwendoline was far from perfect and she was so keenly aware of this. It didn’t bother her, if anything it was a reminder and motivation to continue striving for grace; to earn redemption and pass it along to others who needed it more. There was nothing she hated more than injustice and while she knew it was not her place to enact revenge, seeing such wild imbalances in power such as the Elven nobility or even among her own temple’s magistrate made her blood boil.

So she killed an elderly man? It was an accident, and it was done. If she was smart, it could benefit her, and even Fizzle (though admittedly, she was far less concerned about that if she were being honest.) It would quell the minds of the townspeople and perhaps scare off whatever else was lurking in the wood.

She considered these things as she dragged Vern out of the tower. Fizzle helped Gwen to locate a wax dipped tarp Vern kept in the cellar. Together, they slid the tarp beneath his body and Gwen had opted to do the heavy lifting while Fizzle focused on cleaning. Once the blood was sufficiently cleaned and the floors decent, he was to collect all of the tea cups and gourds and doilies in the tower and put them in a sack. By then, Gwen would have staged Vern’s body; dressing him up in more practical battle attire and scoring the earth around their supposed fight stage.

[taybelipen1984-blog]

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[livingmybestfictionallife]

Enough | Life After George

Anon Request: Sebastian and reader with his adopted son.

Warnings: fluff, father!seb

Tags: @bubblyanarocks3, @broken-pieces, @veronicalei, @yessy2012

It wasn’t long after Sebastian and (Y/N) married that he wanted to revisit the subject of starting a family. He knew she wasn’t as open to the idea of adoption as he was--she was afraid of not being able to see herself as a parent, not know how to interact with the child, and was terrified of not being able to love them as though it was her own. Upon learning she could never have kids, there had been a lingering hole in her chest where a parenting void could never be truly filled, so she thought.

A couple years into their marriage, Sebastian and (Y/N) began to be exposed to their friends and family members starting their own families. From babysitting friends’ kids to playing with their nephews, (Y/N) felt the void begin to fill and she realized that it was possible to love a child as her own; sure she wouldn’t have the experience of carrying them around within her or the rewarding experience of child birth, but she could love and raise a child as if it were her own.

She remembered Sebastian’s comment about adopting a child from Romania and began looking into the waiting period and the process they would have to go through. It wasn’t until their third Christmas as husband and wife that she brought the idea to him. It was a couple weeks before the actual holiday and (Y/N) was rummaging through the kitchen, getting things ready for them to make Christmas cookies together, and Sebastian was lying on the couch watching ‘It’s a Wonderful Life.’ (Y/N) had looked up at the screen when Mary was telling George she was pregnant. Slowly, Sebastian’s lips curled downward in disappointment. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked while dropping the dishtowel and walking over to where her husband sat. With a soft sigh, she sat down across his lap and he spoke.

“Nothing,” he began. “I know we’ve discussed it before and I understand that you’re afraid you won’t be a good parent, but I know you’ll be an incredible mother.”

“Seb, do you want to start a family?” she asked him as he pushed himself up to a seated position rather than lying on his back.

“I don’t want to push you into something you feel uncomfortable in. I know it’s going to be hard, not having a kid of our own, and I know you said you think you’d feel distant or cold but, I...I don’t know,” he sighed as he looked up at the woman smiling down at him.

“Seb,” she sighed again, “do you want to start a family?”

“Yes,” he finally replied with a straightforward answer.

“Good,” she smiled while standing up, pacing into the kitchen, grabbing a packet of papers, and making her way back to him. “Sign these and then we are officially approved by an adoption agency that would allow us to adopt a baby from Romania.” At first he didn’t believe her. He hesitantly picked up the packet and rolled his eyes at her bluntness. It wasn’t until he read the label on the manila folder that he realized she was telling the truth.

“We’re going to adopt a baby?” he asked as he placed the packet on the couch and rushed to hug his wife.

“Merry Christmas,” she smiled as he lifted her from the floor and spun her around.

Before the New Year, Sebastian had booked a flight to Romania during the following February, and was excited to show (Y/N) his birthplace--the place that would always be home. When the time came for them to find a child they wanted to adopt, their plans changed. Initially they planned on adopting a baby, but when they learned of a young boy around age two who lost his parents shortly after being born and who had been bounced around from foster family to foster family, Sebastian insisted that was the child they were meant to help.

When they first brought the boy, George, back to what would be his new home, there were more issues than neither (Y/N) nor Sebastian had expected. When George couldn’t fall asleep because of the time change, Sebastian was there beside him, whispering Romanian lullabies in his ear, and when George had nightmares, Sebastian was at his side to silence his fears. (Y/N) was glad to have the boy in her life, but her fears had been confirmed. She felt useless, as though she wasn’t enough to be a mother to this child. The boy only spoke his native tongue and besides the pet names Sebastian called her, (Y/N) was illiterate. She knew Sebastian wasn’t speaking strictly Romanian to exclude her, but it still felt as though she wasn’t an adequate parent to George.

For the first three months of having George in their lives, Sebastian hadn’t had a reason to leave the house, but that period of bliss would soon be up for him. Soon he would be on his way to China or Spain or Brazil to promote another movie, which meant soon it would only be George and (Y/N) at home. The first week alone with their son was the hardest week of (Y/N)’s life. She had been granted paid leave from work--equivalent to maternity leave--and was enacting that leave during the months that Sebastian would be gone. 

(Y/N) took George to the park but he didn’t stray far from her side. The whole time he wandered around wherever she sat or stood and then she realized he couldn’t communicate with the other kids. Then next day she she George stayed inside and tossed a ball back and forth--this proved more effective in bringing him joy, but whenever he tried to talk to her, her heart sunk at the realization that she couldn’t say anything back, but it didn’t stop her from trying. She smiled at him, hugged him, told him that he was such a good ball player, and continued to speak as though he understood her, but George did the same. It wasn’t until the end of that first week that (Y/N) decided to at least teach George the basics of English. For the next few years until George was school aged, he would learn more and more English and, in return, him and his father would be able to teach his mother more and more Romanian.

It took a while for George to adjust to his new life, but after the constant reassurance that there wasn’t any way (Y/N) or Sebastian could imagine allowing anyone to take him from them, he felt safe for the first time in a long time. When the couple first adopted him, they were on the same page about not forcing the poor child to call them ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’ right off the bat. George called his adoptive parents by their first names until about five or six months into living with them. 

(Y/N) and George had just finished a language lesson and she could tell he wanted to move around. He had been patient with these lessons for the past two months and both mother and son could tell it was paying off. 

“Park,” he would call out with a smile. “Parc mama, te rog.”

“Now in English,” (Y/N) cooed as she grabbed a light coat for George and her umbrella.

“Park, please, mama.”

“Awesome job!” she said while squatting down and extending her hand for a high five. George ignored her intention and rushed to her. He collided with her chest and wrapped his arms as far as they would go around her body.

“Te iubesc, mama--uh, I love you, Mommy.” It wasn’t until she had him wrapped in her arms that she realized he had just called her ‘mom’ three times in the past minute.

“Te iubesc, George,” she responded as best as she could in his native language before looking down into the smiling chocolate eyes of the child she called ‘son.’

Sebastian’s first encounter as being addressed as a parent was just as exciting and spontaneous. A week or so after he got back from working, the two Stan boys had been inseparable. One night as (Y/N) was making George’s bed up for him to go to sleep, Sebastian was running around the house, carrying George in his arms so that the boy could pretend he was an airplane. 

“It’s time for the little airplane to land,” (Y/N) called through the house as Sebastian and George spun in circles and ran through the kitchen.

“What do you say, bud?” Sebastian asked him.

“Higher, Daddy, higher!” George shouted and squealed. Again, first it wasn’t noticed through the noise and joy, but once Sebastian flopped George into the bed and exclaimed he had crash-landed, the boy crawled under his sheets and smiled up at Sebastian. He took each of his father’s cheeks in his hands and said, “goodnight, Daddy. Tată noapte bună. I love you.”

“Goodnight, Georgie. I love you too,” Sebastian responded before kissing his son’s head.

Life with George had been an incredible journey that both Sebastian and (Y/N) were thoroughly enjoying, but when George started school, the bullying began again as well. He had learned a lot in the three years he’d been in America with his adoptive parents, expanded his linguistic abilities, and was an incredibly gifted child, but it didn’t stop the other kids from tormenting him about his heritage. (Y/N) and Sebastian never kept George’s adoption a secret. He had vivid memories of his family before them and would frequently ask questions about his other parents. He understood that the people in his nightmares were gone and that the parents that comforted afterward had saved him from a life of the torture he experienced bouncing around from house to house, and (Y/N) and Sebastian were glad that they decided to not exclude that part of George’s life from him. They also made it apparent to the young boy that being different is a good thing and that his adoptive father was also from Constanta, Romania. 

Prior to starting school, George hadn’t realized that being adopted was a bad thing. 

Sebastian and (Y/N) were waiting at home to hear from George about his first week of school when the poor boy came in the front door crying. Upon seeing his parents, the tears spilled even heavier from his eyes.

“What happened?” (Y/N) gasped while jumping from her position on the couch and crouching down in front of her son. He didn’t hesitate to run to her and throw his arms around her.

“They said--” he sniffed and hurried his head against her chest. “They said you and Daddy were going to leave me too.”

“Who said that?” Sebastian snapped as he also rushed toward George.

“The kids at school! They said you didn’t love me and you were going to leave me--”

“George, sweetie, you’re okay,” (Y/N) cooed while rocking the six-year-old back and forth.

“Mommy and I love you so much, we don’t know what we would do without you,” Sebastian said as his son wriggled toward him while still in his mother’s arms.

“We love you so much we traveled across the world to find you,” (Y/N) said.

“And we would have traveled around the world a hundred times over if it meant finding you. We would never let anything happen to you.”

“But they said--”

“I don’t care what they said,” (Y/N) said while looking George in the eye as he transferred into Sebastian’s arms. “Those kids aren’t important. What they say doesn’t matter because they will never be able to understand how much your Dad and I love you, George.”

[ecotone99]

[MF] Wrinkles, Cheese, and Her

​

In the early hour, the frost is still thriving in the shadows of the trees, hidden from the dawn, in the vacant park. The bench gradually grows warmer from my weight upon it in the brisk Autumn morning. No voices, no obtrusive sounds penetrate my ears. Only the sound of distant traffic, and the occasional flutter of wings. For the first time in a long while, I get to sit and embrace the silence without worrying about work and responsibilities.

It’s been two months. I sit and try and remember every feature of her face. Every curve, every dimple, every blemish. She always told me not to frown too much, or my face would wrinkle before I was even thirty-five. She was seventy-eight and still so full of life. When I first met her in Maple Leaf Retirement Home, I thought we would never get along. Being hired immediately after graduation, I was excited to finally move onto real life- no more classes and reports. I could finally help keep the elderly healthy, it’s what I had wanted to do since I was a child. That was until June 6th, 2014; the day I met her.

Beverly Jane Edith Williams was a dainty seventy-five year old with dyed red hair and thin eyebrows that always seemed to be drawn on in a scowl. She only liked to eat green foods on Thursday’s, and meat on Saturday’s. No food could be touching and forks had to be three pronged. Long crew neck t-shirts must have had one sleeve folded across the top and one underneath the bottom. So precise that Beverly Jane was.

Widowed, but no next of kin, no relatives currently living. Her lonesome life was all laid out in front of me in her file. She would have killed me if she knew I read through it. “That’s an invasion of privacy,” she’d say, “You’re probably some Russian spy our government doesn’t know about. Those politicians are some lazy bastards, I tell ya.”

Corrupted by her own insecurities, she pushed everyone away in an attempt to keep herself safe. She shared her secrets with me one day when I shared mine. It had been my first midnight shift, which was stressful enough, and my long-term boyfriend had dumped me for my best friend.

“Two birds with one stone.”

I had asked what she had meant by that.

“You’ll have people come into your life and make it seem like they are going to be there for the rest of time. They’ll take and take all they can, until you have nothing left to give. Then when they realize they have no more use for you, they leave. You’re better off without both the lover and best friend in the end. They were never real, they never cared. Instead of finding one out now and another later, you got them both out of them way right off the bat.”

​

“I guess you speak from experience.”

“Now listen here, dear. You may’ve just shared something personal with me, but it’s not like I wanted you to. You should expect nothing from me in return.” Her soft advice was now replaced with a stern order. “Now get out of my room and wipe those tears. I can’t stand to see them slide down your face any longer.”

As I had been drying my face and reapplying makeup, another nurse had knocked on the bathroom door.

“Emily, the patient in room 237 has requested you visit her immediately.”

I had re entered her room with a fake smile plastered onto my face.

“Did you need something, Ms. Williams? I was told you called for me.”

“Yes, I did.” Silence.

“Ms. Williams?”

“Just call me Beverly. And get over here and sit your ass down.”

“What is it?”

“Just don’t speak. Let me talk.” I signaled for her to continue along. “My daddy left for the Korean War when I was nine years old in ‘50. I had an older sister, Meredith, and a pet dog, Rufus. After he left, Mama told us that we might not see him again, that something might happen and we would lose our Papa. Only nine years old, I refused to believe I could live without my hero, my first love, my father. She paused, reminiscing in only what I could guess were memories of her dad. I knew she was finally opening up to me, so I sat and waited for a few minutes for her to start again. “You know, I can’t believe I’m actually saying any of this to you. I ain’t ever told anybody about my childhood.” Another pause. “Meredith had lost her right leg, and eventually her life from Polio in ‘53, only a year after the news of my father’s death had reached home. Rufus ran away, probably with some bitch he found in the neighborhood, when I was fourteen. Get it, cause female dogs are called bitches? She let out a soft chuckle, and I couldn’t help but grin. After another moment of her collecting her thoughts, she resumed. When I was sixteen, mom started to have strange men over at the house every night. I’d hear her sobs through the walls after they left each morning. It soon seemed like there was never a moment she was sober, so I left. I got on a train and headed to Chicago, in hopes of finding work, but unexpectedly, I found love instead. My sweet Richard Wayne. He worked as a mailman for the small town I had moved to, and I’ve never seen a man look so sexy in a uniform.” She gave me a sly wink. “Oh you should’ve seen him, Emily. I don’t think anyone else could have been in love like I was. And believe it or not, I was the one that made the first move. After meeting his lovely mother and sister, he had proposed to me May 5th, 1961, the night the first American man landed on the moon. We wed September 13th the same year and life was perfect. We moved in together, and each got a job at the local university, Rich being a janitor and me a secretary. 1964 rolled along and Richard had decided to enlist for the army to fight in the Vietnam War. With much hesitation from me, I had finally agreed to support him. I kissed him on the doorstep of our house, and that was the last time I really saw my husband. He returned in ‘68, but he wasn’t the same. Only now do I know he had PTSD. He was there, but the spark behind his eyes and the genuinity behind his voice was gone, he was monotonous. We still loved each other until death did us part in 2012, when he died of a heart attack in the middle of the night. After I had no one else, I decided I didn’t want to be alone and I came here, to Maple Leaf.”

After laying everything out there in front of each other, exposing our weak spots, we both gained more respect for one another. We became each other’s best friends. I helped her get around when she couldn’t walk, she comforted me when I had no one else to turn to. We stayed up through the nights just talking and sharing jokes. We calmed each other down when her roommate, Diane, stole her last piece of cornbread, or when my co worker, Janice, filed the wrong charts and blamed me for it.

We threw our own 2016 New Years party in room 237, drinking sparkling grape juice and eating cheese cubes. As the ball dropped and the shouting of numbers began, I felt a smooth hand clasp around mine, and as I looked over to her face, silhouetted by the light of the TV, she only wore a content smile as she kept her eyes focused ahead, and in that moment, I never felt like I had left home for college, or work. I didn’t feel like I had no one left to care about me, I no longer felt like I was alone. She had become my home in only three years time. Whenever I was with her was when I was most comfortable living in this boring, lonely life.

But she started to get sick.

Fluid filled her lungs and it was no longer green foods on Thursday’s, and meat on Saturday’s. It became pleurodesis* on Monday’s and 100 mg of Furosemide**. No more smooth laughs, only wheezing breaths. Just like her husband returning from war, she was never the same.

September 13th, 2017, what would have been her and Richard’s 56th year anniversary, was the last time Beverly Jane Edith Williams took an agonizing breath.

I thought I could move on, that I could just find another patient to connect with, but everyone had a part of them that reminded me of her.

So as I sit on this park bench, in the middle of November, not caring that I had quit my job not even 24 hours prior, I reach up to my face and smooth it out.

“You’re going to get wrinkles if you keep frowning like that.” Well, Bev, I can’t seem to do much else these days.

*Pleurodesis- Operation in removing fluid from the lungs by draining it.

**Furosemide- medication used in treating Pleural Effusion (Fluid buildup on the lungs.)

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